Clinch
by Stories with Laura
Summary: It's a dismal day when you find your son unconscious with his hand trapped in a door. [Takes place directly after 'Adoption Day'].
1. Chapter 1

Clinch

By: Stories with Laura

xxx

Sometimes—rather often, lately—Stef wondered what the hell _happened _to the kid who's most ruthless crime was stealing a matchbox car from Target.

'_Twenty minutes,'_ He'd said. _'I'll be back in twenty minutes.'_

Apparently, in the mind of Brandon Foster, twenty minutes was the equivalent to three hours.

It did not take _three hours_ to retrieve a few belongings from an apartment four blocks away.

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be _livid_ with him. She wanted to unleash the kind of motherly rage that even the most wayward of rebellious teenagers feared.

But three hours and thirteen unanswered phone calls later, the anger that both she and Lena shared began to morph into anxiety.

Lena suggested that Brandon may have just decided to spend the night at Mike's. But that didn't explain the fact that he wasn't answering his phone, or Mike's home phone.

And another thing to add to the never-ending list of 'Problems We Have because the Universe Hates Us', was that Mike had been AWOL for nearly two days.

And now Brandon had gone AWOL. Like father, like son. Super.

"He couldn't have run off, Stef," Lena argued. "He's smarter than that. He knows he'd end up just like Callie did."

"What, in Girls United?" Stef quipped sarcastically.

"No," Lena exhaled, pursing her lips. "Most likely in _juvie, _considering the whole fake-ID thing,"

"How many kids do we have in juvie, now?"

"Stef,"

"Okay! You know what? It was our fault for trusting him. It's pretty damn sad when you can't trust your sixteen-year-old to drive down a couple streets by himself."

"Are you even trying to make this better?"

"What am I supposed to do, Lena?" Stef snapped. "Because I don't even know how to handle him anymore,"

Lena closed her eyes, and Stef exhaled deeply, massaging her temples.

After a lengthy beat of silence, Lena proposed quietly; "The least we can do is go over to Mike's," When Stef didn't reply, she continued. "If he's there, then he's there, and he'll be in trouble. If he's not there...well, we'll figure it out then."

Stef pursed her lips, and looked up.

"Okay," She breathed. "Okay. I'll go, you stay with the kids. And try to get a hold of Mike."

"And you will call me."

"And I will call you." Stef half-smiled, kissing her on the cheek. "See you in a few."

* * *

'_Hey, you've reached Brandon, say your thing at the beep.'_

Stef sighed and threw her cell phone onto the passenger seat. She was getting more perturbed by the second. Brandon wasn't dumb enough to just run off, was he? Problem was; Brandon had been making an astronomical amount of dumb decisions lately.

She pulled into the driveway of Mike's apartment building, and felt a blazing fire of rage ignite within her when she saw Brandon's car parked on the curb.

Strike—what was it now, nineteen?

With a clamorous slam of the car door and a string of colorful words, Stef was storming up to the entrance of the apartment building, when she got a glimpse of something flashing out of the corner of her eye.

Turning around, she discerned the flickering—what was that, a cell phone?—near the hood of Brandon's car.

Yep, a cell phone—Brandon's, to be exact. Flashing all of the missed calls and raging voicemails in his inbox.

Stef scrolled through the endless list of _Missed Call from Mom, Missed Call from Mom, Missed Call from Mom, Missed Call from Other Mom..._

Stef was about to rise from her crouching position on the pavement, when a sudden, overly-loud _drip_ ripped through the silence of the night.

Freezing, she listened carefully.

The drops were slow and consistent, and Stef hesitantly looked underneath the car, where the drops seemed to be falling.

There were two things she noticed when she looked underneath that car.

One; the substance dripping into a puddle of itself was thick and red. _Blood, _her brain supplied frantically.

Two; there was a _body_ lying limply on the pavement, their torso slightly elevated near the driver's side door.

Stef's heart pounded rapidly in her chest. A _body_. There was a _body _on the other side of this car.

She swore when the remembered she hadn't even brought a _gun._

What the _hell..._

Stef carefully edged her way around the car, taking a deep breath before she looked down at the person.

The mop of messy brown hair was all it took for Stef to lose her nuts.

"Brandon!"

Stef dropped to her knees next to her son, and absorbed his appearance with horror.

The best description, really, was that the poor kid looked as if he'd been mauled by a bear.

Black, nasty-looking bruises littered the majority of his body, and blood trickled out of his lax lips, landing loudly on the pavement. Blood ran down his face from a gaping wound near his temple. And his jawbone...it was barely attached to his _face. _Nosebleed, black eyes...hitched _breathing? Please _don't say there were broken ribs...

Stef's eyes followed a bruised arm to the car door.

The _closed _car door.

Brandon's hand was trapped in a closed car door.

And Stef held back a brief wave of nausea.

Oh my _God..._

"Brandon," She said, unsuccessfully holding back tears, and tapping his cheek lightly. "Brandon, baby, you've gotta open your eyes for me, okay? You gotta open your eyes."

Nothing. She wrestled her cell phone out of her pocket, and tried tapping his cheek again.

"Brandon, honey, please, wake up for me, okay? You have to open those eyes, baby, you have to."

After a moment of constant cheek-tapping from Stef, Brandon's eyelids blearily blinked open to exhausted slits, and hazy eyes slowly rested on her face.

Stef nearly drowned in fear at how unfocused his gaze was, but hey, his eyes were open, right?

"Brandon," She said desperately, her hand gently gripping his shoulder. "I'm gonna take care of you, alright? I'm gonna take care of you. You're gonna be okay. But you gotta stay awake for me, buddy, alright? You're gonna be fine."

Her anxiety overwhelmed her when he blinked lethargically. Brandon had no idea what she was talking about.

One 911 call and one more reassurance later, Brandon's eyes slowly started to slip closed.

"Shit, shit...son of a—"

Tears ran down her face when she looked at his hand again. The operator had told her not to remove it. Sirens blared in the distance, and she held her son's free hand tightly.

But the hand trapped in the door would give her nightmares until she was on death row.


	2. Chapter 2

Clinch: Chapter Two

xxx

Hands down, this was the worst night of her life.

The ambulance ride was a sickening blur of oxygen masks, and Brandon lying motionlessly on a stretcher while the EMTs' shouts of "_hand is completely crushed", _and _"surgery, no doubt", _and _"risk of infection"_ pierced through her like a knife.

She felt disconnected to her body as she sat in the cheap vinyl of the waiting room chairs, absent-mindedly watching doctors zip back and forth down the hall, and mulling over the frightening details the doctor had explained to her earlier.

The door to the waiting room—_the Intensive Care waiting room_—creaked open, and Lena rushed into the seat next to Stef.

God bless her for not bringing the kids.

"Stef, what _happened?_" Ah, straight to the point. "Tell me what happened."

Stef's watery gaze swept the blank hospital atmosphere. "They said assault was the only logical explanation. Apparently one of the bruises was in the shape of a knuckle."

"Did they tell you anything else?"

"They spun a horribly graphic and overly-descriptive tale on how hurt our son is."

"Well, fill me in."

Stef looked at her morosely, meeting her eyes. "Reconstructive hand surgery,"

Lena did a double-take. "What?"

"Brandon is currently undergoing reconstructive hand surgery. They actually wrote down all of the fractures in his hand on a sticky note and gave it to me."

"Read it."

"You asked for it. It says, and I quote; 'fractured trapezoid, trapezium, capitate, hamate, metacarpals on the index, middle, and pointer fingers, and the distal phalange, proximal phalange, and metacarpal on the thumb,'"

"English, please."

"Basically everything except his pinkie,"

Lena took a long, deep breath. "Is it more than just his hand?"

"Plenty more, I assure you. And would you like to know _why _his hand needs to be 'reconstructed'?"

"Humor me."

"Slammed into his car door," Stef said, monotone. "When I found him, his hand was trapped in the closed driver's side door."

Lena was positively sick now.

"You're kidding me, right?" She asked. "Someone actually had the nerve to—"

"Don't say 'nerve'. If they find any nerve damage, 'paralysis may occur'."

"Sorry."

Stef closed her eyes, before continuing. "Dislocated jawbone, two cracked ribs, concussion, internal bleeding, bruising, cuts."

A brief, deafening silence fell between the two. Lena blinked back tears, and squeezed Stef's hand tightly.

"I'm just trying to think of who would've done this." Lena said quietly.

"We're pressing charges against them, regardless of who they are."

"Obviously, but think, Stef, there aren't gangs around here. Whoever did this must somehow _know _him,"

"I just don't want to get into that right now."

"You're probably right." Lena sighed. "I just want to know where Mike was during all of this."

"Considering it happened right outside his apartment, I'm pretty pissed at that too."

Another silence.

"He's going to be alright." Lena promised, squeezing Stef's hand again. "He's going to be just fine. You know why? Because he's a trooper, just like you,"

Stef gave a forlorn and watery twitch of a smile, but didn't look up. "Lena," She whispered, resting her forehead on her fists. "He was there for hours. Bleeding on the side of the road for hours with his hand crushed in a goddamn door because I was too busy thinking up punishments for him."

"This isn't your fault, Stef."

"Well, whoever's fault it is are probably pretty damn proud of themselves."

* * *

"Jesus, he did not get attacked by a bear."

All four kids lounged in the kitchen, coming up with almost ludicrous predictions as to what happened to Brandon.

"I'm telling you, all evidence points to it." Jesus proclaimed, pulling the orange juice out of the fridge.

"_What _evidence?"

"_The _evidence,"

Mariana slapped him upside the head.

As the banter between the two continued, Callie held Jude close, her eyes vacant as she pondered over the facts—the facts that only _she _knew.

As soon as Lena had run out of the house saying; _"He's hurt, we don't know what happened",_ the name _Vico _immediately came to mind.

I mean, it was crazy to just assume, but it made _sense. _Brandon had told her things about Vico that he hadn't told anyone else.

Callie bit her nail. Vico was _dangerous. _It wouldn't be completely out of character for him to do something like this.

Brandon had pissed him off by buying all of the fake IDs back from their 'clients'; and Vico had gotten revenge. Rumor had it; Vico was kicked off the wrestling team for the IDs. Perhaps Vico had gotten revenge again—this time by actually _hurting _him.

Well, if this was the case, then Vico should be satisfied.

Biting her lip, she set her eyebrows in determination.

Tomorrow, she was confronting Vico.

* * *

**We'll see some things from Brandon's eyes next chapter!**

**Some Stef/Mike drama, some Callie/Vico drama, and definitely some Brandon whumpage.**

**Stay tuned. Reviews are loved.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the wait. Busyness + Slight Writer's Block = No update. But here she is.**

Clinch: Chapter Three

Xxx

_Ugh._

It was as if liquid lead was running through his veins instead of blood. His brain was filled with molasses, and he was certain a boa constrictor was enwinding itself around his chest, squeezing him until his insides burst.

Why were his eyelids so heavy? Why did he feel like he was going to puke? Why couldn't he _move_? Did someone spike whatever he was drinking with an entire bottle of Bacardi?

He tried to search his murky memory as to _what happened, _but to no prevail. He vaguely remembered his car...

_"...destroyed...finds...out..."_

Huh? It was like he was underwater. The sounds his ears occasionally picked up were muffled and distant.

_"what if...never...plays...'gen?"_

He faintly perceived the fact that something—_someone _was touching his hand. Someone was holding his hand? Yep, he could feel their fingers intertwined in his. But he couldn't even _feel _his other hand. Weird...

_"...find a way..."_

Who was talking? He attempted to move, to open his eyes, to speak, to do _anything. _He mustered up every piece of strength he had, and tried to shift his seemingly unresponsive limbs.

All that achieved was a twitch of his fingers. Great.

But at that twitch, whoever was holding his hand began rubbing his palm soothingly. That felt kinda nice...

He wanted to say something, to find out what the _hell _was going on. He wanted to clear his dry, aching throat. He forced his vocal cords to start working, and attempted to speak.

All that came out was a cracked, high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. Huh. That wasn't what he wanted to say at all. What did he want to say again?

The mysterious voices around him suddenly stopped, and his hand was squeezed tighter.

"Brandon?"

The voice was clearer than it had been. That person sounded familiar. He thought his fingers shifted again.

"Brandon? You with us, buddy?"

He gathered up an overwhelming amount of strength, and slowly tried to lift his ultra-heavy eyelids. He found that he was only able to open one of them.

Through his fuzzy, one-eyed vision, he blinked blearily, everything unusually bright.

He identified a face swimming around in his swirling vision—his mom's? Yeah, that was his mom. As his blurry vision slowly became focused, he found that her face was painted with worry and...fear? What? Why was his mom scared? What was wrong? Was she okay?

His head throbbed, for it felt as if his brain was smashing itself into his skull. A sudden wave of nausea overcame him, and he whimpered.

Another face swam into his now spinning vision. _Lena?_

His mom caressed his forehead, and stroked his hair soothingly. "It's okay, you're okay, we're here,"

He surprised himself at how quickly he relaxed. Wasn't his mom mad at him, or something?

His mom continued to gently stroke his head. "We're gonna have to put you back to sleep, okay baby? We're gonna be right here—Momma and I. We're not going anywhere."

He vaguely noticed someone else joining them—wherever they were. He barely processed the words being spoken above him.

The liquid lead once again filled his body, and he was out like a light.

* * *

'_Attacked' _was the word Lena had used when she called home last night. Apparently, Brandon had reconstructive surgery on his hand. This only made Callie's claim even stronger.

Destroying his hand? Possibly ruining his piano dream? Vico might as well have signed his name on Brandon's forehead.

The Fake-ID and Winter Dance mess was supposed to be over and done. People get their punishments, everyone goes home. But evidently, that wasn't so.

And Callie had a nasty feeling that most of this was her fault.

Brandon had jumped through hoops to protect her; to help her. But look where that got him—lying in a hospital bed, doped on every barbiturate the doctors could find, his hand practically hanging by a string from his wrist, with who-knows-how-many other injuries on the list.

Hell, she ruined his _life._

Her guilt trip came to a pause when she saw that Vico's cronies had finally departed from his sides. Vico turned and opened his locker, Callie's glare burning a hole straight through his back.

Well, it was now or never.

Callie took a deep breath, and marched up to where Vico stood.

"Why," She demanded; her fists at her sides.

Vico half-turned to look at her, and rolled his eyes. "Can I help you with something?"

"Do _not_ play dumb with me." She tried her best to keep her voice from wavering. "You know what you did."

Vico smirked, and fully turned to face her. "I have no idea what you're talking about." He said coolly, and began walking away.

Hot on his tail, and grateful the halls were empty, Callie thundered; "Crushing his hand so he can't play piano again? Rich."

Vico stopped in his tracks, and his height seemed to double as he turned to face her.

"You love getting yourself into trouble, don't you? You love getting yourself into things that aren't any of your business."

"_Don't," _Callie growled through her teeth. "Just tell me why you hurt him."

"Hurt who, Princess?"

"You might as well admit it. Everyone knows it was you." She mentally applauded herself for the perfectly polished lie.

Vico's smug expression didn't even flicker. _Damn. _"Brandon got a boo-boo? Seems like the guy deserved it,"

"The Fake-ID thing was over. Everything was over, and then you brought the trouble back."

"Again; business that doesn't concern you. Look, Brandon got what was coming to him, whether I had anything to do with it or not."

"Just give it up. We know it was you."

"_'We'_?" Vico snorted. "You're acting like you're actually part of that family. You've caused them too much trouble for them to want you, Juvie Girl. The only reason they're keeping you is because you and your brother are a package deal. So stop running around like Brandon's little cheerleader because of your incest deal."

If felt like she'd just been stabbed.

"Look," Callie snarled, hiding her hurt. "You might be able to get away with this when it comes to Sanchez, but what about your dad, huh? I've been told he's an ass. He'll probably send you off to some military school."

"Get the hell out of my face, jailbird."

"You'll be the jailbird after Stef and Lena press charges. Neither Sanchez or your parents can save you from that."

"You can't prove it was me."

"Brandon can."

Vico stared her down, daggers shooting from his eyes.

Callie continued. "You claim Brandon 'ruined' your dream, so you went and ruined his."

Vico backed up, his twitch of a smirk returning. "Hate to break it to you, but he screws everything up. Maybe the twerp shouldn't get into things he can't handle."

With that, he turned his back and walked away.

And that was all the evidence Callie really needed.

* * *

Hours later, Stef was still seated in the pathetic little plastic chair next to Brandon's hospital bed, holding his...good hand, and warily eyeing all of the tubes and bandages and bruises that littered her little boy's body.

But mostly, she eyed that hand.

The hand that had been splinted and strapped down to the bed handle after the three-and-a-half-hour long surgery. The hand that would destroy her son once he realized he...that he couldn't...

No. He'd be able to play again. They'd find a way. They'd pay double for rehab, they'd triple his physical therapy, they'd do anything—

"Stef?" She turned her head to see Lena halfway through the door, a tired and uneasy expression on her face.

"Yeah?"

Lena looked hesitant to answer. "Mike's here."

"Tell him to go take a hike."

Lena sighed, and fully entered the room, shutting the door behind her. Her gaze softened when she looked down at Brandon.

"He said he hadn't gotten our messages until a little while ago. He told me he rushed here when he got them."

"Good for him."

"Stef," Lena sighed, just as exhausted as her wife. "Brandon's his son, too. Just go talk to him. Tell him off. Say what you want to say. Just talk to him."

"Ah, yes. And say; 'Parenting Lesson Number One; When your child is beaten to a pulp outside your home, make sure you're actually there.'"

"I don't appreciate the sarcasm, but go ahead. I don't care. Go talk to him."

Stef looked down into Brandon's face nervously, and grasped his hand tightly. She combed a flyaway brown curl off of his forehead.

Lena walked over and kissed Stef on the cheek. "I'll sit with him."

"I don't want to leave him." Stef said, resting her head on Lena's shoulder.

"I'm gonna sit with him. You go talk to Mike, okay? If anyone gets to rant to him, it should be you."

"Hold his hand the entire time." Stef said, motioning to Brandon.

"I promise I will."

Stef kissed Brandon on the forehead, and then Lena. "I'll be back." She rose out of her seat, her knees popping from the long-term seating of the unsupportive chair.

"Good luck."

With one more last look at her son, Stef took a deep breath, and entered the waiting room, her exhausted eyes landing on a disheveled-looking Mike, standing with his arms crossed, his gaze downcast.

When he noticed her, his posture immediately straightened. When they were about a foot away from each other, Stef closed her eyes, her lips pursed.

"Stef—"

"I don't want an excuse, Mike."

Mike ran his hand over his face, and exhaled. "Is he okay?"

"No, he's not. Not even close." She snapped.

"Stef—"

"He's been suffering in a hospital bed for almost two days now. Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry." He breathed. "I'm sorry."

She took in his unshaven face, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint scent of alcohol on his clothes.

"You were drinking."

He sighed.

"You were, weren't you."

He opened his mouth to speak, before Stef interrupted him. "You were out drinking when your son was undergoing almost a _four-hour-long _surgery."

"I kicked Dani out of my house, and my son had almost been arrested for selling fake-IDs." He hissed.

"Is that supposed to be your excuse?"

"I never said it was."

An interminable, tense-filled silence fell between the two. Stef pursed her lips again, and looked uneasily back at the door to the hospital room.

"Where were you, Mike?" She asked quietly. "Where were you when your son was being assaulted right outside of your apartment?"

Mike looked at her incredulously. "Assaulted?"

"Yes, Mike, he was attacked."

"Was it that kid he was selling fake-IDs with—Vico or something like that?"

"We don't know who it was."

"Stef," He sighed. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, okay? And I can't begin to explain how much I love our son, and how much I hate myself for this."

"He might not ever play piano again."

Mike looked up into her eyes, his mouth falling open. "What?"

"His hand was trapped in his car door for hours. It needed to be reconstructed with surgery. The fate of his piano career will be determined on how well the rehabilitation goes."

"Oh my God,"

Another tense silence.

"Can I see him?" He asked timidly.

"Why should I even let you near him?"

"Because he's my son too, whether you like it or not,"

"You can see him under one condition."

"And that is?"

"You will never drink again." She deadpanned. "I don't care where you are, or how much stress you're under, you will not drink ever again. And if you do, you'll be lucky if you get to see Brandon on Christmases. I'm done, Mike. This could have been avoided if you were there."

Mike closed his eyes, his face contorted in pain.

"Okay," He finally breathed.

"Okay. His room's right here."


	4. Chapter 4

Clinch: Chapter Four

xxx

Being no one else was home; Callie pushed her homework aside and went to answer the phone. The caller-ID extravagantly declared the name _'Momma'_, and a wave of anxiety overcame her. Should she tell them about her Vico Theory?—no, it wasn't a theory, it was a fact. Vico hurt Brandon—that, she was certain.

But would she tell them?

She had to. Wait, no, she couldn't—it might lead to Brandon getting in trouble. But she _should—_Vico had to be stopped. He would not get away with this. But...

No. She was telling them. Secrets have the power to destroy lives. She learned that the hard way.

"Hello?" Callie answered quietly.

_"Callie,"_ said Lena, her voice laced with exhaustion, fear, and weariness. _"Hi, sweetie. How's everything going over there? Is everyone alright? How are you?"_

"Um, everything's fine, everyone's fine," Callie answered, and then asked awkwardly; "How are you guys doing? How's...how's Brandon?"

_"Well, so far there are no complications with the surgery, which is positive. The other injuries are healing slowly but surely. They're keeping him sedated for just a little bit longer."_

"I'm glad to hear that."

_"So are we." _Lena sighed. _"You're sure everything's okay over there? Do you need anything?"_

"No, we're okay." Callie paused. "Are...are you gonna be home soon?"

_"Everyone here's been telling us we should—especially with all of you at home. But Brandon's not going to be able to just go home after he wakes up; we'll be here a lot. I can barely pry mom away from the hospital room for a glass of water."_

"Oh, okay."

_"You guys can come see him when it's not as...critical. I miss all of you so much."_

"We miss you too."

_"Alright, sweetie, I gotta get back. We'll be home very soon, I promise. Love you."_

"Love you too," Callie said, but then her eyes widened when she remembered what she was about to say. "Wait,"

_"Yeah, honey?"_

Great. How was she going to put this?

"I, um," Callie inhaled, clutching the phone tighter. "I think I know who...who did this to him."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. _"Well, who?"_

"Vico,"

Another pause. _"Vico? Are you sure?"_

"I'm-I'm pretty sure,"

_"Mike said the exact same thing." _Callie was certain Lena hadn't meant for her to hear that. _"Why?"_

"Well, remember the whole fake-ID thing? When Brandon and Vico were in the office together?"

_"How could I forget?" _Lena mumbled.

"Vico..." Callie took a deep breath. _No more secrets. _"He got kicked off the wrestling team. He was gonna get a scholarship for it. He blamed Brandon for ruining it for him. So...I think Vico tried to ruin Brandon's piano thing by screwing up his hand...and kinda beating the rest of him up along with it."

There, she said it.

But she wouldn't reveal that she'd actually _spoken _to Vico.

_"Okay," _Lena breathed; a new, hurried tone in her voice. _"Okay. I'm gonna talk to mom about that. Thank you for telling me, Callie. We'll get this all straightened out. I don't want you to worry about anything, okay?"_

"Okay." Callie suddenly felt exhausted.

_"Love you, honey. Tell everyone we love them, and that we'll be there soon. Bye."_

"Bye," Callie breathed, clicking the phone off.

* * *

As the doctors performed x-rays on Brandon's hand and jaw, analyzed all of the other injuries, and checked the frightening equipment surrounding him, Stef, Lena, and Mike stood right outside the hospital room, discussing the conspiracy that _Callie _of all people had spilled to them.

"It makes sense, it really does." Stef breathed, rubbing her forehead with her fingers.

"I'm surprised Callie told you all this." Mike said, folding his hands across his stomach.

"Which makes me suspicious as to where she _got _it from, but I guess that doesn't matter right now." Lena sighed. "But still, just because it makes sense doesn't mean it happened."

"I had that kid in mind from the start." Mike said under his breath.

"Congrats, Sherlock," Stef mumbled from the seat she'd plopped down in.

"Don't start."

"Look," Lena interrupted. "Callie made it sound like Vico blamed Brandon for ruining his wrestling dream or whatever, and that Vico apparently got back at him by ruining his piano dream. That's what makes sense. You don't slam someone's hand into a door that hard and leave it there without a reason."

"It was more than the hand." Stef chimed in, miserably.

"I'm aware."

"Here's the thing; if we question him through the police, it might dig up all the fake-ID stuff, and get Brandon in trouble." Mike said.

"Which is exactly our problem," Lena sighed.

"If Vico even mentioned _anything _about the fake-IDs, whether it's for his defense or some other thing, it would just get him in more trouble than he already would be. He can't get Brandon in trouble without getting himself thrown under the bus too." Stef yawned after speaking.

"What if we're just accusing a random kid?" Lena sat down too.

"Vico's not a random kid. He's someone who wants revenge on Brandon, and has hurt him before. He showed that with his Winter Dance charade." Mike added.

"So, what do we do? He's not proven guilty." Lena leaned back in her chair.

"We have a police report started, Captain already knows." Stef said. "But they couldn't go anywhere with it without a suspect. But now we have one."

"Can't go anywhere without a witness, either. You know Vico wouldn't admit to anything, and we wouldn't be able to prove he's wrong." Mike looked at her pointedly.

"Any other discoveries, Mister Holmes?" Stef asked sarcastically.

"Your sarcasm is just lovely." Mike replied.

"He says as he ridicules sarcasm by using it."

"Enough," Lena groaned. "So, the only witness is Brandon himself, right?"

"Right,"

"Great," Lena groaned, closing her eyes and resting her head against the wall.

As a tense silence fell upon them, Mike took note of how obviously exhausted Stef and Lena were. They could barely hold themselves upright in their chairs, their eyes fighting to remain open against their heavy eyelids. How long had they been there? Almost three-and-a-half _days _now? Without going home once? Hell, if they didn't get some rest, they'd look no better than Brandon did.

"Why don't you two go home and get some rest?" Mike proposed gently.

Stef and Lena looked at him like he'd just grown a second head, and they slumped back into their chairs.

Mike sighed. "You guys will be more of a help to Brandon if you're healthy and well-rested. I'll be here with him the whole time."

"Can we actually trust you on that?" Stef snapped.

Ouch.

"Stef," Lena warned.

"Don't start this, Stef. Don't even go there with me." Mike sighed. "Look, you have four other kids at home that haven't seen you in three-and-a-half days. They need you guys. They need you, and you need them."

Stef and Lena's stubborn faces slightly softened.

"Not to mention, you need to take care of yourselves. You're exhausted. Go home and relax." Mike then playfully added; "Brandon's not going anywhere."

Stef and Lena's faces flashed from stubborn to reluctant to worried.

"Seven hours. That's all I ask. They're taking him off the sedative at eight, which is in eight hours. Go home for seven hours, take care of yourselves, take care of the other kids—the ones who haven't seen you in days. Okay? I'll be here with him the entire time. I swear it."

Stef and Lena passed each other stubborn, questioning, and thoughtful looks, and finally, Lena said to Stef; "For the other kids. They're ours too, you know."

"If you don't stay true to your word—" Stef hissed. Lena led her by the arm out the door.

"I will. Now go home, Psycho."

* * *

"So," said a smug-sounding voice from somewhere behind her. "Brandon hasn't been in school in a few days."

Startled, Callie spun around, and was met with a smirking strawberry-blonde.

Speak of the devil.

Talya leaned against a set of lockers, and stared Callie down with a complacent expression on her face.

"What do you want?" Callie asked, angry but unsure.

Talya shrugged; a playful smirk on her lips. "You know, Callie, you ruined his life."

"Get away from me." Callie demanded through clenched teeth. No. She was _so_ not doing this right now.

Talya laughed, looking at Callie with ridiculing eyes. "It's true, you know. You completely screwed up his entire life. I watched. Brandon's just too stupid to realize it."

"Listen," Callie hissed. "You know _nothing._ You know nothing about how he is or what his life is like. Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"Funny," She crossed her arms. "He said the exact same thing."

"What do you even want?"

Talya seemed to ignore this. "You two are the laughing stock of this school. Anything good Brandon ever had here—it's gone."

"You really think he cares about that? You don't even know what he's going through right now." Callie snapped.

"You don't know that. _Don't talk about things you don't understand._" Talya repeated mockingly. "When you piss someone like Vico off, and he gets you alone—in the dark, it's not that hard to figure out what happens next."

Callie slammed her locker shut, glaring at Talya with daggers in her eyes. "What did you know about this?"

"I knew enough."

"And you did nothing to stop it? I thought you still _cared_ about him." Callie said mockingly.

"Callie," Talya sighed, fake-sympathetically. "If I still cared about Brandon, that whole plan at the Winter Dance would have never happened."

"Get out of my face. And don't come near me again."

"What, are you gonna _punch_ me, Juvie Girl?"

Callie took a mental note of how frequently that pet name was used. Turning her back, she blinked an annoying tear away, and stormed off, not looking back once.

"Lover Boy and Juvie Girl—the incestic match made in heaven." Talya's voice rang in her eardrums, far behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

Clinch: Chapter Five

xxx

That strapped up and splinted hand stood out like a sore thumb.

No pun intended.

It stood out like a splotch of ink on paper. As much as Mike hated looking at it, he couldn't stop. That hand—well, all of the kid's injuries—signified just how much Mike wasn't there for his son. No one was there for him, honestly. If they'd paid more attention to Brandon as they had the other kids, maybe they could've kept him out of trouble.

Too late now.

Mike sat in the stupid little plastic chair next to Brandon's bed, holding his hand, and looking into his son's bruised and beaten face—which had been rendered peaceful-looking by the sedative.

There were many reasons why the doctors had kept Brandon knocked out for so long.

Reconstructive hand surgery was not something to take lightly. It was a serious procedure that literally pieced your hand back together, one bone at a time. The hand is a sensitive appendage, and a severe injury to it would come with agonizing pain that lasted for days on end. Sedation granted you obliviousness to the absolute worst of the pain.

They'd also kept him drugged up for so long to prevent unnecessary movement from his dislocated jawbone. Not to mention, his body desperately needed the rest after all it had gone through.

But there were also the psychological aspects. Going through everything Brandon had underwent in the past month and half, being so brutally beaten that you fell unconscious, and then having to find out you might never be able to do the thing you're most passionate about, ever again? Being unaware of your surroundings seemed like a nice, peaceful getaway from current predicaments. Sedation seemed like a blessing.

Mike wished he could keep Brandon peaceful for just a little bit longer.

In just one measly little hour, they were taking Brandon off the sedative.

But, I mean, he wouldn't be 'all there' when he woke up. He'd be exhausted and dazed and loopy. Brandon wouldn't have to face any reality until that medicine crap wore off.

Until.

Exhausted and Drugged-Up Brandon would stall Devastated and Depressed Brandon for a while. And Mike was grateful. Because finding out about the whole piano fiasco would be the thing that sent Brandon completely over the edge, Mike was convinced.

Mike glared at his son's mutilated hand, waves of both sorrow and anger rippling through him.

"I'm really sorry, B." He sighed, rubbing his thumb gently over Brandon's free hand.

Mike remembered that there was good news to the seemingly never-ending black hole of bad luck they were trapped in.

There were security cameras outside of his apartment building.

At first, he'd wanted to slap himself for not thinking of it sooner.

He could find a way to get a hold of that footage. Hell, he could do it in an hour. He was a cop, wasn't he?

'_But not a very good one,' _He thought darkly.

Mike almost called Stef and Lena to tell them the news. But they needed to take care of themselves. They needed to be with the kids. Mike was surprised they'd actually _stayed _home for this long. He would tell them when they got here. In fact, they'd be here any minute.

He warily eyed all the tubes and bandages that seemed to be burying his son alive.

"A lot's happened, buddy," He sighed, stroking Brandon's forehead, being mindful of the stitches. "But we're gonna fix it, alright? We're gonna get you back on track. I promise."

* * *

"Jesus, stop poking your sister."

"I'm not!"

"No yelling, young man. We're in the comatose hallway." Lena scolded, she and Stef trying to haul their kids through the hospital.

"They're in _comas._ Don't they _want _someone to wake them up?"

"Enough, we're almost there."

Stef and Lena had brought the kids along to see Brandon. They'd wanted to bring them when Brandon was less critical and more conscious, but the kids insisted they go.

Once they reached the waiting room, Stef and Lena turned to face the kids. Jesus had already flopped down in a seat.

"Okay, guys," Lena began. "Brandon's not awake right now. They're going to take him off the medicine in about an hour."

"Still," Stef added. "He won't be able to talk to you. He'll be pretty out of it, alright?"

"That; and his jawbone's dislocated." Lena mumbled.

"Yes," Stef sighed. "Just be gentle, be careful, be quiet. This is only the second time he'll be awake. And he probably won't even remember the first time."

"Gotcha," Mariana said.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Jude asked.

Lena pulled him into a hug and kissed his forehead. "In time, he'll be just fine, honey."

The door to Brandon's hospital room creaked open, and a weary-looking Mike emerged into the waiting room.

"Mi-i-ike, my man!" Jesus shouted.

"Jesus," Lena hissed.

"Hey," Mike greeted quietly. "Did you guys take care of yourselves?"

"Yes, Mother." Stef tiredly teased. "How is he?"

"He's running a little fever. Doctors aren't worried about it, though." Mike looked over at the kids, and then gently motioned for Stef and Lena to follow him.

Once they were away from the kids, Mike began. "I have a way to find out who did it."

"Enlighten us."

"There are security cameras outside my apartment building. They just happen to be right above where Brandon's car is parked."

Stef and Lena's heads snapped up.

"If I can get a hold of the footage from that night, I think that'll be all the evidence we need. Captain can take care of the rest." He continued.

"Are you sure you'll be able to even get to the cameras?" Lena finally asked.

"I mean, I'm a cop. The apartment building can't refuse me evidence."

"How will you be able to identify anyone with those cameras—especially at night?"

"Those things are high-def. And if that's not enough, the police station can adjust the picture quality. This is gonna work."

"We already have a report on file, too. We'd just have to get the okay from Captain." Stef added.

"Well," Lena leaned against the wall. "When do we start?"

"I could go now, if you want." Mike offered.

"You don't want to be here when Brandon wakes up?" Lena asked him, incredulously.

"I do," He defended. "But wouldn't you rather get this done as soon as possible? You know what; it's up to you guys. You decide."

"I'll go with you." Stef said to Mike.

"Are you kidding?" Lena snapped.

"Lena, it needs to be done," Stef told her gently. "And two cops are better than one."

"He's going to be awake in less than an hour, and you're not even going to be here."

"Well, in all fairness—" Mike began, but was stopped by Lena's deathly glare.

"As much as I want to see his eyes open as soon as possible, they won't be open until hours after he's taken off the meds. It's a process, Lena. This is the perfect opportunity to get it done." Stef assured.

"Alright, fine, go. Go play CSI." Lena waved them off.

"Lena—"

"No, really," Lena half-smiled. "You're right. Go hop into your Mystery Machine and foil the bad guy. But you better be back in a timely fashion."

"Jinkies," Stef smiled, and kissed her wife. "We'll be back faster than Brandon can open the eye that's not swollen shut."

Mike smiled tiredly, and held the door open for Stef. "We'll be back."

"Alright. Let's split up, gang." Lena joked.

"Would you do it for a Scooby Snack?" Mike tried.

"And you ruined it."

* * *

Hours later, Lena, Jesus, Mariana, Callie, and Jude surrounded a barely-awake Brandon lying in his hospital bed.

"Hey, honey," Lena said gently, stroking his hand. "Don't try to talk, okay? Just relax."

Brandon blinked blearily in her direction, and his head slowly lolled to the side.

The doorknob was fumbled with from the other side, and the door creaked open, revealing a frazzled, but satisfied-looking Stef and Mike.

"He literally just opened his eye less than a minute ago," Lena informed them. "But still, you're late."

Stef smiled down at Brandon. "Hi, baby."

"We have news." Mike announced quietly, which was Lena's cue to follow them.

Lena kissed Brandon on the forehead, and carefully followed Stef and Mike out the door.

"Well?" She asked.

"Everything went surprisingly well." Mike said.

"Captain gave us the warrant. The apartment building owner was extremely cooperative. We were able to get the footage back to the station." Stef added.

"And?" Lena was getting anxious.

"The crew at the station pulled up the recording—and while seeing how brutally Brandon was beat up will give us nightmares until we die—we were able to identify the attackers." Mike informed her.

"They zoomed in on the faces." Stef pursed her lips. "Two guys. One of which was unknown. But the other was definitely Vico, and the station is already chasing down his ass."


	6. Chapter 6

Clinch: Chapter Six

Xxx

This had to be the most stubborn kid in all recorded history.

"Brandon, sweetie, you gotta drink something for us, okay? You need it."

His head rolled away from where the straw was held, and he looked warily up at them with sleepy eyes.

"B," Mike said, gently. "You gotta get something in your stomach, kiddo. I don't know how much longer your body's gonna like the idea of the stuff it needs being injected into it."

It was like trying to feed vegetables to a toddler.

"Brandon," Stef combed her fingers through his hair. "Please, buddy, just a few sips."

He turned away again. _Nope._

Stef sighed, rubbing her forehead and yawning. Who the hell gave this kid his stubbornness?

Oh yeah, she did...

_Damn genetics._

"You know, Brandon," Lena began, setting the cup down on the table. "I heard they make milkshakes here, and I heard they just happen to make strawberry ones—aren't those your favorite?"

Brandon's eyes darted to her, a flicker of excitement crossing his features for a moment.

Now we're getting somewhere.

"I heard they put whipped cream on them, too." Lena continued, hiding her smugness. "Let's make a deal. You drink some water for us, and we'll get you a strawberry milkshake. How's that sound?"

Brandon looked tempted, and he seemed to be considering the offer. His eyes darted from the cup of water to his parents. But he continued to look at them stubbornly.

Lena didn't miss a beat. "A _large _strawberry milkshake,"

His eyes widened slightly, and Stef, Lena, and Mike all bit back a smirk.

"So, that's a yes?" Stef asked him.

All three parents recognized the reluctant acceptation in his eyes, and Mike grabbed the cup, and started to press the straw towards Brandon's lips.

Blushing from the fact that he'd just been sold by a milkshake, Brandon shakily raised his left hand, and cocked an eyebrow at Mike. _I can do it myself._

_That_ was certainly a good sign.

Mike bit back another smirk, and made sure Brandon could securely hold it until he let go. Brandon slowly took a sip, and looked up at his parents questioningly.

"One more,"

Annoyance flickered across Brandon's face, and he took another sip.

"One more,"

Sip.

"Another one,"

Brandon furrowed his eyebrows, and repeated the process.

"And...one more."

When they were convinced Brandon had swallowed, they set the cup back on the table.

"Alright Brandon," Stef said, ruffling his hair. "Thank you. We're gonna go get you a shake. Don't fall asleep on us."

When the three adults were in the hallway, they chuckled quietly, and high-fived each other.

"He would have gotten away with it, if it weren't for us meddling kids."

* * *

"You _fucking _snitch,"

Callie whirled around, gasping when Vico slammed her locker shut.

"Do you have any _idea _how many messes you make?" Vico snarled, pressing her against the lockers. "You just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you? Always gotta go make a scene. Fucking attention whore,"

"Get _away," _Callie growled, and Vico pressed her harder.

"I guess you're just fifty shades of whore, huh? Hooking up with your siblings, desperate for attention—"

"_Stop_," She demanded.

"You know what, you little bitch? I'm being questioned by the _cops _in an hour. Can't run, can't hide, because the whole school's got me on lockdown. This is happening because _you _had to tattle to mommy."

"It wouldn't matter if I said anything." She hissed. "They have evidence. There was a video camera right above his car. They would've known it was you regardless of whether I said anything or not."

"You gave them the _idea._" He growled. "And now I'm fucked."

"You had it coming. This is your fault."

"You know what, _Callie_?" He sneered. "If I end up in Juvie, can I borrow your prison uniform?"

"Screw you."

"I'm surprised you haven't yet. Slut."

"Get _away_!"

As people began to look over at them, Vico snarled, and stared her down intently.

"When this is over," He began; his voice eerily calm. "You're going down. You, your _boyfriend_, and whoever else you've hurt in this damned world."

"Get. Off of me." She demanded. "Or I'll make the police come sooner than an hour."

Vico released his grasp on her, and stormed away as a crowd of people watched.

Heart beating frantically, Callie quickly walked away, a hot tear sliding down her face.

'_Do you have any idea how many messes you make?'_

* * *

There were no more pain meds lingering in Brandon's body. That was evident.

Stef knew this, because his face kept scrunching in pain,

And he kept looking at his hand.

Every muscle in her body was tense, as she willed his eyes to dart away from his hand. _Please, God. Please, if you're out there, don't let him figure it out. Not now._

"How're we doing in h—" Mike's question immediately vanished from his lips, when he saw Stef's anxiety-filled face, and Brandon looking confusedly at his hand.

Brandon just couldn't put his finger on this. _How'd that happen?_ Huh. It looked like his hand was screwed up pretty bad. It really hurt, too.

That would hurt when he was playing piano.

...

...

_Wait._

Stef and Mike nearly burst into tears at Brandon's facial expression when everything clicked in his mind.

_He knows._

Brandon stared at them questioningly, his eyes filled with anxiety. _What does this mean?_

A tear slid down Stef's cheek, and she wiped it away hastily. Mike looked down at his shoes. Lena walked in, just as the tears began to well in Brandon's eyes.

As tears of confusion and fear streamed down Brandon's cheeks, Stef grasped his left hand.

"Brandon," Stef called, gently but firmly. "Brandon, look at me."

Another tear slid down his cheek, and she wiped it away lovingly. "Sweetie, I don't want you to worry about this, okay? We're gonna take care of it. Everything is alright. Everything is going to be alright."

'_How?' _Her thoughts taunted her. _'How are you going to fix this?'_

_You can't._

* * *

**Yikes.**

**Anyone else excited for the whole 'Questioning Vico' thing next chapter?**


	7. Chapter 7

Clinch: Chapter Seven

xxx

He was going home tomorrow.

Yippee.

'_Can't wait to return to the life that I literally royally screwed up in the matter of five minutes,'_

But this hospital thing was getting pretty old, though.

It was worth admitting that lying in a stolid hospital room with your hand pinned to an armrest for over a week became hopelessly boring. However, lying flat on his back, immobile, gave him too much time to stare at the ceiling and mull over what kind of Hell was waiting for him once he left this room. With every passing day, it was as if the lucent walls seemed to close in on him, more and more, like they were suffocating him with the reminder of reality's presence. That's why Brandon decided to spend most of his hospital time sleeping.

His parents and some doctors were literally sitting right by his bed, discussing crap about 'where he would go from here', or something like that. He presumed they were sort of indirectly talking to him, including him in the conversation, but he wasn't really listening. Who cared? Why should he take an interest on what _he_ was gonna do next? There's nothing _to_ do next. What did he have left to offer?

He vaguely paid attention and caught a doctor say something about a "liquid diet" because of his screwed up jaw or whatever. He couldn't talk for six weeks? He had to eat baby food? Good. He was a selfish, weak, no-good piece-of-shit, and he deserved to suck down liquidated potatoes through a straw.

Ooh, now they were talking about his _hand._ The hand that he couldn't _feel. _How do you crush your hand so badly that you _can't even feel it?_ Oh yeah, well, first, you start selling fake-IDs with the captain of the varsity wrestling team, then you buy all the IDs back because you're _such _a damn angel, and then you go out alone at night where Rocky and his wrestling bros are waiting for you.

His eyes stung.

He heard a doctor say it. Chances of him playing piano again? Slim—incredibly slim. He mentally gave that guy the nickname of Doctor Dickwad.

Everything he thought he was and wanted to be was smacked away in one swipe.

The moment he comprehended the fact that this hand injury basically annihilated his chances of getting that scholarship—and technically his entire piano career—his heart had dropped into his stomach like a grenade. Time seemed to slow, and it felt as if he was slowly drowning. The world around him appeared to grow darker and murkier as he continued to sink to the bottom. There seemed to be a strange sensation of heaviness constricting his chest, as he descended further and further into the caliginous water.

Nothing mattered to him anymore. Not life, not his fate, not Callie, not happiness. Why should it matter? Why should _he_ matter?

"Brandon?" His mom's voice snapped him out of it. "You okay?"

_I'm just swell, mother._

He looked up at her, slightly nodding, being mindful of the concussion. Her eyes flashed fear, worry, and sorrow, before they softened, and she caressed his good hand comfortingly. Well, she saw right through that. He couldn't even speak, but yet his face told the whole story. How bad of a liar was he? He thought he was one clever little shit, considering the ID catastrophe. Evidently not.

Brandon could tell his parents felt awful about this whole mess. They were constantly by his side, making sure he was comfortable, talking in order to take his mind off of the hand. But they knew it didn't work. Brandon knew they saw right past his forced upturned lip, and they felt terrible about it. Yet, they still tried to make him feel a little less shitty, despite everything he'd done to them in the past month and a half.

"_I hope you know just how much they love you..."_

He'd give anything for Doctor Dickwad to put him on that sedative again. No worries, no problems. Just nothingness. Lovely emptiness.

God, he was screwed big time.

_What am I gonna do?_

* * *

Stef would be the one to question Vico, and you'd better be sure as Hell that nothing was standing in her way.

She opened the creaky, obnoxiously heavy door to the interrogation room, and was immediately met with Vico sitting with a sour expression on his face from across the room.

Upon seeing her in the doorway, Vico crossed his arms over his chest and snorted, failing to hide a smirk.

"Is something funny?" Stef questioned warningly.

Vico shook his head, avoiding her intense gaze on his face. "I think it's cute that he's having his mom interrogate the big bad bully for him."

This was bound to be an intriguing interrogation.

"I would be the one to question you anyway, regardless of whether Brandon was my son or not." She snapped. "So you'd better cut the snarky comments."

Pursing her lips, she walked coolly over to the interrogation table and sat in the chair opposite from Vico. _Damn, _this kid _looked _mean.

"Why am I even here?" He mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

"Because you severely hurt someone, and that's not okay with us."

"_Severely?_" He snorted. "That's a bit of an exaggeration."

"Really," She deadpanned. "Maybe you'd understand how true it was if you'd sat in the hospital with him for _over a week._"

Vico rolled his eyes, and re-crossed his arms.

"So," She began, swallowing her annoyance. "How about you tell me _everything _that happened between you and Brandon; beginning to end. No lies."

A beat of silence passed, and Vico stared her down with testy eyes.

_You wanna play that game, you little prick? Then let's play._

"Keep in mind," She told him, "You're not allowed to leave until I'm satisfied. So if you want to chill here for the rest of your life, then go right ahead."

Vico's expression was thick with annoyance. "Fine," He replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What stories must I humor you with?"

"I want to know everything from the moment Brandon wanted to sell the IDs with you."

"Maybe I want to sit here for the rest of my life."

"You're already in trouble. You might as well tell all."

Still not making eye contact, Vico sighed. "He said he needed fast money. He told me he needed a thousand dollars, but he wouldn't say what for. I told him about my ID business. I said he could make twice that amount in a week."

"And?"

"And," Vico clenched his teeth, looking annoyed. "He didn't like the idea—hated it, actually. Mr. Goodie-Two-Shoes didn't wanna do anything _'bad'_." He snorted.

He continued. "But, he accepted the fact that you can't make a thousand dollars in less than a week with any other job. So he went with it. Things were going pretty well, because I had an extra person to sell the IDs with. Things between the two of us were pretty decent, too. He was whiny, though. Complained about getting caught like _every day, _saying stuff like 'as soon as I get what I need, I'm gone'."

He still didn't look her in the eye. "And then, one day, everything blew up. He got the money he needed, but then he started going around, buying _back _the IDs we sold people with the money he made, and convinced those people to never come back to me. Why? I don't know. Guess he thought he was a 'good person' for doing it. But now, he had no money, and I'm pretty sure he was way overdue for whatever he needed it for."

"You're not being very detailed." Stef mentioned.

"Who were you expecting, Charles Dickens?" Vico sneered.

"Just go on."

"Okay, well, naturally, I was pissed at him. Of course I'm gonna do something about it. So, I find out his ex is pissed at him too, and that his weakness is...Callie...so, angry ex plus angry ex-business partner plus a whole school of Callie haters equals the Winter Dance thing."

"However," He exhaled. "I was expecting _Callie _to get arrested, not Brandon. So, when Brandon tells all, I get saved from everything else, but my dad kicks me off the wrestling team. I was gonna get a scholarship for it. But now I can't. And that's Brandon's fault."

Stef drummed her fingernails against the table. "So, you thought it would only be fair for you to take away what Brandon loves, too."

Vico fiddled with the zipper on his jacket, and sighed. "Yes."

"You know," Stef began, leaning forward. "Finding a way to be on a different wrestling team is possible. Playing piano with a crushed hand with destroyed nerves is not."

Both fear and a tiny spark of satisfaction flashed through Vico's eyes.

"Is that all?" Stef asked, patiently.

"Yes _ma'am._" He drawled sarcastically.

"Well," She stated. "There's going to be consequences, Vico. Maybe a trial."

"A _trial?_" He exclaimed. "You can't have a _trial._ It would just get Brandon in trouble for the fake IDs."

"I said _maybe. _We _are _pressing charges, but most likely, there's going to be a nasty fine your parents will have to pay, and chances are you'll be expelled from Anchor Beach."

"You can't expel me—"

"Sanchez and your parents can't save you from this. When you were busted for the fake IDs, no charges were pressed against you. And that's why—legally—nothing happened to you. But now, there are charges pressed. And now it would be known by the state that Sanchez didn't expel you even with the charges."

Vico exhaled slowly, his head dipping downwards.

"Thank you for your time." Stef said, emotionlessly. "Officers will come in and tell you when you're free to go."

As Stef placed her hand on the doorknob and was prepared to leave, Vico said; "You know, everything Brandon did during that whole ID mess was for you guys."

"Don't try to butter me up."


	8. Chapter 8

Clinch: Chapter Eight

xxx

Well, reality had busted down his door, bashed him upside the head, and pounded him until it felt like he couldn't breathe.

Much like Vico had done.

School tomorrow was gonna sting like a bitch.

He just couldn't _wait _to bust through those double doors with two black eyes, a face covered in stitches, and his hand in a ridiculously bulky and uber-noticeable sling and cast. And trudging through those hallways, knowing that every single person he passed would be laughing at him? _Super. _

And to top the cake, he had the _oh-so-honorable_ privilege of being able to see his ol' friend Vico. He was _ecstatic _for that.

Jeez, did self-hatred turn you into a sarcastic smart-ass, or what?

"B?" His mom asked softly, entering his room with a soft knock. "You okay in here?"

_Peachy._

He looked up from the pounds of homework he had to complete—or at least bullshit through—from his absence, and gave her a forlorn twitch of a smile.

She looked at him sympathetically, and both she and Lena walked in and sat on either side of him.

"How's the homework comin'?" Stef asked, warily eyeing the stacks of textbooks littering the bed.

Brandon shrugged; his eyes downcast.

"Yeah, I hated this stuff, too." Stef sighed, in a futile attempt to lighten the mood.

It had no effect, and Lena cleared her throat. "So, we found a whiteboard for you to write on while you're at home, so you don't have to keep communicating with those huge puppy-dog eyes of yours."

Handing him the whiteboard, Brandon immediately took the marker and scribbled; _'Thanks'_.

Stef and Lena both smiled, but their grins washed away when Brandon's face fell back into its hopeless, disconsolate expression—an expression that was becoming frighteningly frequent, and was shredding Stef and Lena's heart into a million pieces.

"Brandon, can we talk for a little bit?" Stef asked, gently.

He nodded, wincing at the pain the movement caused. _I love concussions._

"Listen," Lena began, softly. "We know things have been hard lately, and we just want you to know some things."

"You made your mistakes, Brandon, you did." Stef began, looking at her son intently. "Many of the choices you made weren't the right thing to do. But sometimes, we do the wrong thing, because we don't know where else to turn. We know you had others in mind when you made some of those decisions. We know you were trying to help your father by selling those fake IDs. You did all the wrong things for all the right reasons. And now, the storm of all the more regrettable choices has passed, and we have to face the damages. We can start picking up the pieces, and clean up the messes those choices have made. And your hand...Brandon, we know that's devastating, honey, we know. It's devastating for us, too. It kills us when we look into your eyes, and see nothing but pain and hopelessness—which we know wasn't just from your injury. It's the worst feeling when you realize that nothing is the same anymore. But sweetheart," She took his left hand, searching for his eyes with her own. "Things can be okay again, but that all comes down to you. You have to _want _it. You have to find the drive to _want _to get your life back together. You can see a therapist, a psychologist—Hell, you can go to the priest at my dad's church. When you go to rehabilitation for that hand, you have to _believe _that it's going to work. You have to think; '_This is going to work. I am going to play piano again.' _And don't just think it to think it; truly and unconditionally _believe _that you are going to be sitting in front of that piano in front of hundreds of people again. Your mistakes don't define you, Brandon, and your past doesn't define you, either. Love, you've gotta keep your chin high. Things _can _get better, and they _will _get better. But again, that all comes down to you. You can overcome this, Brandon. Life goes on, and so will you."

Before he could stop it, an enormous tear slid out of his eye, and trailed down his cheek. Both of his mothers kissed him on either temple, and they held him in a warm embrace. More annoying tears slipped down his cheeks.

_Life goes on, and so will you._

* * *

"What do you _mean _he won't be expelled?"

Stef and Lena sat opposite of Principal Sanchez, their faces filled with awe and rage.

"The fight did not occur on school grounds, and therefore by law, is not the school's issue." Sanchez informed.

"For one; it wasn't a _fight, _it was an ambush." Lena admonished. "And two; Brandon was critically injured to the point where he may never be the same again. That definitely calls for consequences both legally and in school."

"And there _will _be a consequence." Sanchez continued, unfazed. "Due to the charges you've pressed, his family is being fined—what is it, fifteen hundred dollars? Yes, this will go on his record, but legally, expulsion is not necessary."

"Actually, expulsion _is _necessary. Any form of violence allocated from the school's front doors to the student's front door is the school's responsibility." Stef versed, her patience wearing thin.

"I beg to differ." Sanchez replied, in a clipped tone.

"Are you really going to question a _police officer?_" Lena asked, incredulously.

"You're protecting him because his mommy signs your paychecks." Stef crossed her arms.

"_Watch it_." Sanchez hissed.

"So you're not going to budge on this." Lena pursed her lips.

"No, I am not."

"The police station will be informed about this, because again, _I work there. _And I hope you enjoy having Vico amongst your school, he's _such_ a _lovely_ young man."

"Brandon's no better than him."

"Watch yourself." Lena said; her lips in a tight line.

"Don't act like your kids are such innocent angels, Lena." Sanchez began, eerily calm. "I've got a bone to pick with every single one of them."

* * *

**Three things;**

**-I had to rewrite this chapter like 5 times.**

**-This story WILL be done before or early on June 16****th****.**

**-8 MORE DAYS UNTIL THE PREMIERE!**


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